


Are You in the Mood?

by snowkatze



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Depressive Thoughts, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-08 00:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19096033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowkatze/pseuds/snowkatze
Summary: Baz is tired of doing what's expected of him. Simon finds him in the catacombs.





	Are You in the Mood?

Sadness had made itself a home in Baz' chest. It had hollowed out the space just beneath his rip-cage and settled there. It was there to stay – was growing violet flowers next to his heart, was playing music in the middle of the night. Sadness was the worst kind of subtenant. Sometimes, Baz became more aware to its presence. Days like these, when memory was more real than the present, it felt like sadness was trying to climb out, cutting of his air, making it hard to swallow. Sadness had been a subtenant for a very long time – and he hadn't let it go out – but sometimes he remembered the time before it had moved in. The anniversary of her death was one of these days.

  
Baz was down in the catacombs, because where else would he go, and his head was spinning. He wasn't drunk, didn't want to be, because he knew that sadness was a resident and not easily dismissed. He let a flame dance between his fingers and thought about all the things he could set on fire down here. There were the skulls, the bones, the metal on the walls, the pieces of wood on the floor, but it was damp in here. Most flammable was, of course, the vampire, but Baz tried not to think about that. (Baz couldn't help thinking about that. Sadness down there was ordering pizza, making cocktails and putting together an angry playlist of Metallica songs – ready to throw a fucking party.)

When he heard the footsteps, his instinct was to get up and saunter onwards without leaving a trace, but then he took a moment of inward reflection and discovered that actually, he really didn't care enough. Not tonight, anyway. Hadn't he been on the run long enough? This was the way the world turned, of course. In the end, justice would catch up to him anyway. At least that's the way it was supposed to go. So he stayed put as the footsteps grew louder, didn't even bother to put on a mocking smile. He was sick of playing the game. Just for a bit, he allowed himself indulging the impossibility of leaving the game without giving up, without losing it. (It, the game, or it, his mind – same difference.)  
When Simon Snow stepped into the room, Baz didn't lift his head and smirk. He didn't make a cutting remark. He didn't scoff and cross his arms. He didn't walk over and touched him, either. He didn't card his fingers through Simon's curls. He didn't dip his head and lean in for a kiss. But Simon Snow didn't spit in his face and punch him, so. You win some, you lose some.

Baz saw an angry expression, or more precisely, _the_ angry expression on Simon's face, the one he always wore when he found Baz in the catacombs. _Oh great,_ he thought, _here we go again_. Usually, he'd make up some bullshit excuse, something like taking a midnight walk or following a cat. Something he'd make up something that hit a little too close to home, like, hey, I'm visiting my dead mom. Sometimes he made a sarcastic comment that Simon took entirely serious, like, _just looking for a good spot to put your skull. Still trying to work out the intricate technicalities of hiding in plain sight._

Suddenly, when Simon took one step further, his shadow shifted. The tall candles in front of the burning torch cast huge shadows above Simon's head. They started to look like giant horns. The sword that Simon had lifted near his head cast a shadow like a sizzling demon tongue. It looked like a monster's shadow. Despite himself, a shiver went down Baz' spine.  
“Oh. Well,” he sighed, seemingly unbothered. “If it isn't Simon Snow. The Chosen One. Saviour of the World of Mages. Did you come to save me?”  
Baz softly bit his lip, something dark flickering through his eyes.  
“No... So what are you in the mood for today?” he finished.

“What are you doing here?” Simon snarled back.  
“Sucking the blood of the most pure and innocent rats, what else?” Baz deadpanned, careful to make himself sound sarcastic. He gave his own shadow a glance. Just a harmless boy's shadow. Talk about role-reversal.

“I know you're up to something,” Simon says, eyes narrowed.  
“Right. I'm up to no good.”  
I don't think he even knows how much of a cliché he's being.  
“And this is the part where I say 'The only thing I'm up to is planning how to make your life miserable for the next three years' and you'll say something like 'Oh Baz, you're such a horrible person'. Is that it? Is that what you're in the mood for? 'How could you, Baz?', is that the one? 'I'm watching you', that's a good one.”  
“Stop trying to distract me. I'll -”  
“- figure out your devious plan?” Baz asked tiredly. Simon stared at him, stunned. “Yeah. The script's getting predictable.”

Simon scooted closer. He was clearly irritated, going by the frown on his face. Baz' gaze fell on Simon's shadow again. He could see how the monster would attack him. Already had attacked him. Simon Snow ripped him open, like his knuckles when he punched the walls in the catacombs. And it all came falling out – the truth – the pain – every part of him that was broken – which was – every part of him. Simon Snow didn't need to be a monster to bust him open. The opposite, in fact. He just needed to smile his sunshine smile, radiate the energy of a Golden Retriever, and it was over for Baz.

_What are you gonna do with the pieces, Simon Snow, once you've picked me apart?_

“Why don't we skip the pleasantries?” Baz drawled. “Get to the good part right away. You in the mood for a fight? Is that what you want?”  
There was a dangerous, nearly mad gleam in his eyes. His thoughts kept going in spirals – the things he should do intertwining with the things he wanted to do. He was too worn out to keep them separated.

Baz expected Simon to get riled up and throw an insult at him, because usually it was so easy, but instead Simon's face softened and he asked: “Baz... What's going on?”  
Somehow, that was worse. Of course it was. Those were the weapons Simon Snow fought with; kind words and soft smiles. The bugger didn't even know it.

Baz' eyes flickered away and he huffed out a breath at the audacity of it.

“I'm tired, Snow. What else is new?”  
“It's 2 am.”  
“Damn right it is.”

Snow seemed unsure how to act. He tried to approach Baz with the same care you would dismantle a bomb with.  
“Are you in the mood for a feast, then? There's gotta be some... dead rats... lying around here somewhere. Or are you in the mood to strike?”  
Baz nodded to the sword.  
“Today you might be in for a lucky shot.”  
He broke into a manic fit of giggles. Pain broke through the confused expression on Simon's face. He walked closer, wanting to reach out, not knowing what to do with his hands. Slowly, he lowered himself next to Baz.

“What are you talking about?” he whispered, shock evident in his voice. He let the sword disappear, surprised that he was even still holding it.

_What are you gonna do, Simon Snow, once you've pulled out my heart? Are you in the mood for a casserole dish? How about you put it on a skewer?_

_  
_ Sadness in the basement started blasting “Honey I'm Good” from the speakers. Then it began smashing the furniture with a baseball bat, making a riot. Baz felt tears well up in his eyes and he squeezed them shut. He couldn't stop thinking about it. He didn't kick Snow that day. He didn't step up to dance with him. He didn't put his hand on his lower back. He didn't hurt him. He didn't touch him. Sadness grabbed a ladder in his heart, knocked on the door, wanted out - then – suddenly – something touched his shoulder – he flinched back and opened his eyes. Snow was looming over him, his eyes wide in concern. Baz let out a barely audible gasp. A soothing touch – this was how Simon Snow fought. Baz felt mortally wounded. He swallowed hard.

  
“Come on, Snow. Why don't you go for the kill?” Baz said with a raspy voice. There was real fear in his eyes, he was certain that Simon could see it. But the same fear seemed to be in Simon's eyes. He leaned closer. Baz was unable to move. With a light touch, Simon pushed a curl behind Baz' ear. Then he went for the kill – the kiss.  
This was how Simon Snow won an argument. Baz lightly pulled at Simon's hair,  _we should be fighting._ Simon softly moved his thumb across Baz' chin,  _let's just do this instead._ Simon leaned back slightly, leaving his head near Baz'. Baz let out a shuddering breath. His eyes skimmed over Simon's face, trying to find something there, whether he was a boy or a monster. But it was just Simon Snow.

“Why are you doing this?” Baz breathed, scared of the answer.  
“I don't know,” Simon replied, appearing stunned. “I think that's just... what I'm in the mood for. Is that okay?”  
He put his hand on Baz'.  
“Can we do that?”  
He was just Simon Snow, and he shot Baz a tentative smile. That was all it took. Baz could only nod and turn his hand over, gripping Simon's tightly, finding something akin to hope in his eyes.  
  
 _Sadness,_ he thought. _You're fucking evicted._

 


End file.
